Gospel Story Finder

Many stories have been related concerning the missionary experiences of those called to serve in Scandinavia. August Carlson served three missions, first as a local missionary in Sweden. It was difficult. Fined on more than one occasion for preaching the gospel, he sometimes had to go without a companion. He became discouraged and was ready to quit, but his mother, who had been deceased for 10 months, appeared to him and encouraged him to continue. As recounted in a biography written by his wife, Caroline:

He was considering asking for a release from his mission, as everything seemed dark and useless; so he decided to write to the mission president the next day. In the early morning of that day, which was the 6th of February 1880, he heard a knock on the door to his room. Thinking it was one of the people he was staying with, he said, “Come in!” To his surprise his own mother walked in. . . . He stretched out his arms as to embrace her, but she said, “Touch me not, for I am only a spirit. I have asked permission to come to see you because I know of your hardships.” Then she . . . told him to be faithful and finish the mission . . . and promised him that a way would be opened for him to get money so he could emigrate to Zion.18

His mother’s spirit also told him to gather genealogical information for temple work even though, at that time, vicarious work for the dead was being practiced only in St. George.

The promise his mother’s spirit made was fulfilled when August Carlson emigrated to Utah in August 1881 and located in Ogden. He returned to Sweden to serve two more missions, during the last gaining an audience with King Oscar and having the honor of introducing Heber J. Grant to him.

Everything that summer seemed to be a dream or some kind of miracle. My awareness of how much families and gospel principles mean to me came so clear one week in July. This week wasn’t a normal one for the Clarks, Carters, and Tanners. It was an unforgettable family reunion in Hawaii.
In Hawaii there are many great places to go and things to see. My fondest memory is of Diamond Head because it not only opened my eyes to the beauty of the island of Oahu, but also opened my eyes to eternal beauty.
The entire hike was a quarter of a mile long, but you’d never know it the way it seemed to stretch. When my cousins and I began the hike, all we could see was a path that seemed to last a lifetime. We reached an area where some people were stopped along the path saying, “I can’t believe we are doing this. I really see no point in going on any farther.” After I heard this, I began to doubt myself, but I still kept walking.
Next, we reached this long, dark tunnel. My cousins and I went inside. We could hardly see. The only way we could get through this dark tunnel was to hold to an iron railing. We became excited when we could see, in the distance, the end of this long tunnel. We were so happy because we thought our hike was over.
When we reached the end of the tunnel, one of my cousins screamed. There before our eyes was a flight of steps carved out of the mountain. All I could think was, I can’t believe I am actually doing this.
Then my uncle turned to me and said quietly, “I’ve been here before. I know that it is worth it.” As I walked up the steps with aching legs, I thought about his gentle words, “I know that it is worth it.”
When we finally reached the top of the crater, I was completely overwhelmed at the sight, a panoramic view of the island.
As I stood there, I thought how the hike was like our earthly lives. We begin by seeing how far we have to go to become like Christ. We are overwhelmed, but we keep going forward. At times we may listen to people say, “I don’t see the point of going farther.” Even then, we continue through the darkness holding the iron rod. We may think our trials are over, and we find we only have more challenges ahead. We press on, yielding to the words, “You can make it. It is worth it.” When we finally reach our goal, we can look back and know it was worth it.
Since hiking Diamond Head, I have realized our challenges can make us stronger. I have since centered my goals around more spiritual things, such as attending early-morning seminary every day. We can all succeed if we have the faith and courage to keep going through the hard times in our lives.

John Powell shares this touching experience: “It was the day my father died. … In the small hospital room, I was supporting him in my arms, when … my father slumped back, and I lowered his head gently onto the pillow. I … told my mother … :
“‘It’s all over, Mom. Dad is dead.’”
“She startled me. I will never know why these were her first words to me after his death. My mother said: ‘Oh, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.’
“Somehow I knew … that these words were saying something very important to me. They were like a sudden shaft of light, like a startling thought I had never before absorbed. Yet there was a definite edge of pain, as though I were going to know my father better in death than I had ever known him in life.
“Later, while a doctor was verifying death, I was leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room, crying softly. A nurse came over to me and put a comforting arm around me. I couldn’t talk through my tears. I wanted to tell her:
“‘I’m not crying because my father is dead. I’m crying because my father never told me that he was proud of me. He never told me that he loved me. Of course, I was expected to know these things. I was expected to know the great part I played in his life and the great part I occupied of his heart, but he never told me.’” (The Secret of Staying in Love, Niles, Ill.: Argus, 1974, p. 68.)

On many occasions our children have had dinners on a tennis court. It was interesting to watch them plan who would attend, where the food would come from, and what type of date would want to spread a checkered cloth on a piece of cement and have a picnic on a tennis court. On another occasion this same group had dinner inside a playhouse and acted like they were on the roof garden of an elegant hotel. It was interesting to watch them plan and grow and develop as they made assignments and had a truly wonderful time without it costing very much.

Lisa could hardly wait until Stephanie’s birthday party. The invitation promised fun games and tasty refreshments. Lisa carefully wrapped the stationery set she’d chosen for Stephanie and tied a purple ribbon around it.
When all the girls got to Stephanie’s house, Stephanie led them to the garage. It was decorated with crepe-paper streamers, and a brightly colored piñata hung from the rafters.
The girls took turns swinging at the piñata with a papier-mâché stick. Lisa gave the piñata a whack, but it didn’t break. When it finally broke, small candies spilled out, and everyone scrambled for them, laughing and squealing.
“We need some music,” one of the girls said.
Stephanie turned on a CD player. The music was loud, and the singer was singing some bad words. Lisa grew more and more uneasy. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I need to go home,” she whispered to Stephanie.
Stephanie looked surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“The music is making me really uncomfortable,” Lisa said.
Stephanie looked disappointed, but Lisa knew she needed to leave. She called her mother and told her what was going on.
“I’ll be right there,” her mother said.
Lisa went to wait outside. But soon Stephanie and the other girls joined her on the front porch. “We turned off the music,” Stephanie said. “Please don’t leave.”
The rest of the girls nodded in agreement.
“None of us liked it,” Stephanie admitted. “We just didn’t have the courage to say so.”
Lisa smiled. “Let me call my mom back before she leaves to tell her I’ll be staying after all.”
Stephanie threw her arms around Lisa. “Thanks for staying. The party wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Lisa hugged her friend back. Standing up for her standards hadn’t been easy, but she was glad that she had.

One winter day, I thought back to an experience from my boyhood. I was just eleven. Our Primary president, Melissa, was an older and loving gray-haired lady. One day at Primary, Melissa asked me to stay behind and visit with her. There the two of us sat in the otherwise-empty chapel. She placed her arm about my shoulder and began to cry.
Surprised, I asked her why she was crying.
She replied, “I don’t seem to be able to encourage the Trail Builder boys to be reverent during the opening exercises of Primary. Would you be willing to help me, Tommy?”
I promised Melissa that I would. Strangely to me, but not to Melissa, that ended any problem of reverence in that Primary. She had gone to the source of the problem—me. The solution was love.
The years flew by. Marvelous Melissa, now in her nineties, lived in a nursing facility in the northwest part of Salt Lake City. Just before Christmas I determined to visit my beloved Primary president. Over the car radio, I heard the song, “Hark! the herald angels sing; Glory to the newborn King!” (Hymns, 1985, no. 209.) I reflected on the visit made by wise men those long years ago. They brought gifts of gold, of frankincense, and of myrrh. I brought only the gift of love and a desire to say thank you.
I found Melissa in the lunchroom. She was staring at her plate of food, teasing it with the fork she held in her aged hand. Not a bite did she eat. As I spoke to her, my words were met by a benign but blank stare. I took the fork in hand and began to feed Melissa, talking all the time I did so about her service to boys and girls as a Primary worker. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, far less a spoken word. Two other residents of the nursing home gazed at me with puzzled expressions. At last they spoke, saying, “Don’t talk to her. She doesn’t know anyone—even her own family. She hasn’t said a word in all the years she’s been here.”
Luncheon ended. My one-sided conversation wound down. I stood to leave. I held her frail hand in mine, gazed into her wrinkled but beautiful countenance, and said, “God bless you, Melissa. Merry Christmas.”
Without warning, she spoke the words, “I know you. You’re Tommy Monson, my Primary boy. How I love you.” She pressed my hand to her lips and bestowed on it the kiss of love. Tears coursed down her cheeks and bathed our clasped hands. Those hands, that day, were hallowed by heaven and graced by God. The herald angels did sing. The words of the Master seemed to have a personal meaning never before fully felt: “Woman, behold thy son!” And to his disciple, “Behold thy mother!” (see John 19:26–27).
Outside the sky was blue—azure blue. The air was cool—crispy cool. The snow was white—crystal white.
From Bethlehem there seemed to echo the words:
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(“O Little Town of Bethlehem,” Hymns, 1985, no. 208)
The wondrous gift was given, the heavenly blessing was received, the dear Christ had entered in—all through the doorway called love. I declare this solemn truth in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The woodland was under a heavy shroud of cloud cover that weekend. Rain filtered through the air, and the cameramen waited patiently to expose their film. It rained, and they prayed. And it rained some more. If the filmmakers were unable to complete filming in that one week during the spring of 1975, the project would have to wait a year until the surroundings were right again. The season would soon change, and to add to the problems, the lead actor had to leave the following Friday. On Monday morning the crew awoke before dawn and began to set up all their equipment, thinking somehow they could compensate for the weather. But suddenly it stopped raining. When the sun came up, they beheld the loveliest mist they had ever seen. The tall, wet grasses sparkled, and the birds burst forth in song, and they knew they had been blessed with a beauty they could never have produced themselves.
That morning the Brigham Young University Department of Film Production began filming scenes for the First Vision. Stewart Petersen, who played the Prophet Joseph, walked through those tall grasses with thoughts of that other “beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty” (JS—H 1:14) when Joseph Smith humbly prayed for an answer to his question, “Which of all the churches should I join?”
The First Vision is a historical film commissioned by the Church for release as a teaching aid and missionary tool. The script follows Joseph Smith’s own account of the spring of 1820 in Palmyra, New York, when, after reading and pondering James 1:5, he decided to ask of God which church was true.
The singular beauty of that first morning was followed by a week of busy filming. By Thursday renewed bad weather set in—more clouds and more rain. By the end of the day there was still one important scene that needed to be put on film—and that scene had to be filmed in bright sunlight. It was the scene where Joseph runs toward his home on a bright sunny day. So Friday morning they set up an 18-foot scaffold for their cameras in the center of the field that lay between the grove and Joseph’s home. They offered another special prayer and waited. After what seemed like hours the clouds parted. The cameras rolled. Just before the scene ended, the clouds closed in again, and darkness prevailed. “That’s all we got,” said David Jacobs, producer-director, “but that was all we needed—it’s the scene that opens the film.”
In Joseph’s own account of the First Vision he tells of entering the grove and kneeling to supplicate the Lord. Suddenly he felt a literal darkness—“some power which entirely overcame me … the power of some actual being from the unseen world.” (JS—H 1:15–16.) How to handle the feeling of such an evil influence was hard to conceptualize and then transfer onto film. On the plane to New York the week before, David Jacobs had been studying some research material on a recently discovered account of the vision written by Joseph.
A couple of sentences jumped out at him as he read: Joseph said, “I heard a noise behind me like some one walking toward me. I strove again to pray, but could not; the noise of walking seemed to draw nearer. I sprang upon my feet and looked around, but saw no person or thing that was calculated to produce the noise of walking.” (As quoted in Dean Jesse, “Early Accounts of the First Vision,” BYU Studies, Spring 1969, p. 284.) “I knew instantly,” Dave said, “that this was how I wanted to get into the darkness scene. It was dramatic. It was true.”
But the most difficult scene was that portraying the Father and the Son. Whether to even show the divine vision was a major decision because of its sacred nature. Then one of the General Authorities mentioned to Jesse Stay (director of the Department of Film Production) that he felt that one of the most important messages of the First Vision was the fact that the Father and the Son were separate and distinct beings—contrary to the universal approach of the three-in-one Godhead. The decision was made: the Father and the Son are represented in the film.
Making a Church film such as the First Vision is different from any other filmmaking. Each of the workers involved—sound men, cameramen, actors, director, costume and makeup crew—all are devotedly intent on its success for unique and unselfish reasons. They know of the potential missionary impact and they know of the testimonies it could strengthen if the job is done right. Brother Jacobs said, “They’d laugh at me in ‘the industry’ for saying it, but I believe if a person is moved spiritually by the film, it’s because the Lord has blessed our efforts.”

Brother McConkie tells the story of Reed Smoot, who was the first Latter-day Saint to represent Utah in the United States Senate. During his service he became highly respected by his colleagues and was one of the men selected to help decide who would be nominated as a candidate for president of the United States.
“His party had won the presidency the last several elections, and most observers thought the trend would continue. It was almost conceded that this convention would name the next president of the United States. … During this convention the leaders assembled there said to Senator Smoot, ‘Senator, you may have the nomination if you want it. There is one stipulation: You will have to soft-peddle the fact that you are a Mormon.’ Senator Smoot is reported to have replied, ‘I would rather be a deacon in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints than be president of the United States.’” (P. 33.)

He slept a while because of the pills. The bishop stopped by to see him, but saw him asleep, and said he’d come back later.
When the old man woke up, he was embarrassed that he’d fallen asleep. But I said it was okay; I didn’t mind, and it would make him get better fast.
“Jamie, you been here too long. Your folks’ll be worrying about you.”
“It’s okay. They know I’m here.”
He turned his head so he could see outside. “What day is it?”
“June 13.”
“June 13. Now starting in a few days, I’d try an Adams with a number 14 hook. You got enough flies? If you need any, you know where they are.”
All of a sudden he seemed to get some strength, and he leaned forward. “Now, you keep visiting them families, you hear? The Johnsons are coming along fine, but you ask the bishop to get the Scoutmaster over there to get their boy Brad in Scouting.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard, and there was an urgency to his voice. “Jamie, you keep yourself clean so you can marry a pure and beautiful LDS girl in the temple when the time comes. And get ready to go on your mission. You need to read the scriptures more than you do.”
“I will.”
He still was holding onto my hand. “Jamie, once on my mission I went and saw the changing of the guards … Jamie …”
Before he could finish, a nurse stuck her head into the room. “I’m sorry but visiting hours are over.”
He released his grip. “You’d better go, Jamie. Come back tomorrow if you can.”
The next day when I got home from my softball game, my mom told me he had died that afternoon.
I walked over to his place and down the path to the fishing spot on the river where we used to go, and sat down on a rock. The river takes a bend just upstream from that point, and there was a hole where the eddy currents curled around in slow lazy loops, and there, he told me, the fish stayed when they were feeding on a hatch of flies coming down the river. The spot was hard to find because of the growth of trees on both sides, and most people who fished it probably got their line tangled in the fallen branches that lay in the water. But he told me where to stand and how to cast so you avoided the hidden traps.
My thoughts were interrupted by a trout jumping clear of the water for a fly. And then, for a moment, I could hear in my mind the old man say, “Don’t whip the water, just let it slide down nice and easy. You’re supposed to make the fish think a fly is landing on the water and not that a tree has fallen into the river. Use the Royal Coachman now, Jamie. How come you’ve never read the Book of Mormon? I want you to read it, and in three months I want you to tell Brother Johnson about it and bear your testimony.”
I sat there for a couple of hours thinking about him, until finally it was too dark and I got up and walked back down the path to my home.

A dozen years ago, in one of the countries of Africa, we had faithful members of the Church who had been meeting in their homes for several years. I went to that country to see if we could receive permission from the government to bring in missionaries and establish the Church. I met with a high-ranking government minister. He gave me 20 minutes to explain our position.
When I finished he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
He stood up to usher me out of his office. I was panic-stricken. I had failed. In a moment our meeting would be over. What could I do? I offered a silent prayer.
Then I had an inspired thought. I said to the minister, “Sir, if you will give me five more minutes, I would like to share one other thought with you. Then I will leave.” He kindly consented.
I reached for my wallet and removed this small For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried.
I said, “This is a little booklet of standards we give all of the youth in our Church.”
I then read some of the standards I have mentioned tonight. When I finished he said, “You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and they do.”
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I replied, “Yes,” and I did.
Several months later we received official approval from the government of that country to come and establish the Church.

Another attempt to capture the stallion began at the horse’s favorite watering hole, Onion Creek, ten miles southeast of Austin, Texas. One day, while the stallion and his band of fifty to sixty drank at Onion Creek, twelve determined men assembled on Pilot Knob, a bluff overlooking the creek. Each man had two horses that were handpicked for speed and endurance.

To set the trap, ten of the men rode down the blind side of the knob and concealed themselves and their horses in positions south of the creek along the trail the white stallion usually took. The other two conspirators waited on Pilot Knob until they heard birdcall signals from the ten men to indicate they had reached their designated stations.

The zero hour had come. The two men on Pilot Knob eased down the back of the hill and rode in a wide arc north of the wild horses. Then, shouting and waving their hats, they charged full speed from the north at the mustang band. The startled horses, logy with water, fled straight south toward the ambush.

The stallion, accustomed to being the target of hunters, pulled ahead of his band. As he thundered along the trail, the concealed men, one after another, snaked out their lariats, missed, and cursed. Several drew pistols and fired. They aimed to stun the great horse by creasing the back of his neck. But they couldn’t touch him as he raced with the wind, his mane and tail streaming behind.

More wary than ever now, the stallion paced in huge circles, working gradually south. His loyal family followed him until his mares and colts, a few at a time, dropped away, exhausted.

At the end of three days and nights without rest, the stallion still paced on. He was now two hundred miles south of Onion Creek and had worn out all but two of the horsemen stalking him.

After another day, the two men finally gave up the chase. The white stallion was still headed south.

Where he went, no one ever knew—but he was free. This famous mystery horse, the Pacing White Stallion, lives on today in legend as a symbol of the love of freedom.

Last Halloween, members of the Redlands Second Ward Mutual in the San Bernardino California Stake were busy making cookies and marking scriptures instead of sewing costumes and painting faces. Their efforts culminated in a “trick or treat in reverse” the evening of October 27, their regular Mutual night, when they treated 27 nonmember families to homemade cookies and a Book of Mormon.

The ward seventies group leader and the young people themselves decided who to visit. The youth were then divided into groups of six, with one representative from each Mutual class in each group. After presenting the families with the Book of Mormon and the cookies, they asked them: “Do you have any questions for us? Representatives of our church would like to stop by in a few days and see what you think of the message of the book. Would that be all right with you?” A week after the event, a list of 18 families who had been visited was turned over to the seventies quorum. These families have been contacted by stake and full-time missionaries for teaching possibilities, and families in the ward are fellowshipping the contacts. At least one girl who was visited that evening has been baptized.

The spirit of the evening was summed up by Mia Maid Rachel Hansen, who said: “We who were giving and those friends who were receiving felt a special closeness. It was a beautiful experience to see one of our nonmember friends feel the joy of accepting the gospel.”

Although most of the Saints had left Nauvoo by summer, some remained because of poverty or sickness. This made anti-Mormons very angry. On 10 September 1846, about 800 men with six cannons began to fire on the Saints still in Nauvoo. The attack continued for several days until an agreement was reached that every Mormon would leave except five men and their families, who would stay to sell the remaining property.
Five or six hundred of these remaining Saints crossed the Mississippi and camped on the riverbank in Iowa. They had only blankets and brush bowers for shelter. None of them had food for more than a few days, and many were very sick.
On 9 October, a miracle occurred. Flocks of quail flew into their camps, landing on the ground and even on the tables. The hungry Saints were able to catch the birds. The meat saved many people from starvation and stirred their hearts as they realized that the Lord was caring for them.
Their fellow Saints had not forgotten them, either. Many came back from the Missouri River to help. Others went into neighboring cities to seek money to aid the poor and sick. In the end, the refugees were rescued and divided among the various camps in Iowa, a few even reaching Winter Quarters.

“You’re never going to finish that thing in time,” Mark said to his eleven-year-old sister, Annie, as he passed behind her chair. In his hands he gently held a honey-colored wooden box, smooth and gleaming in the spring sunlight.
Annie stared glumly at the tangled mint-green yarn in her lap. “You got help from Dad with yours,” Annie defended herself. “No one will help me with this hat.”
“That’s because none of us knows how to crochet,” said Bonnie, Annie’s 14-year-old sister. “The only one who could help you is Mom.”
Annie jumped up, grabbing the yarn in both hands. “Just you wait,” she yelled back as she raced up the stairs. “Mom’s going to love it!”
But Annie didn’t really believe it. Bonnie’s painting was propped up to dry against a wall in their bedroom. It was a watercolor of the park, all grass and trees and flowers and blue sky. Mother would love it! She would also love the old box that Mark had sanded and refinished. It would be perfect for her scarves. But this hat—if it was a hat—no one, not even Mom, could even pretend to love.
The stitches weren’t really stitches at all, just tight, stubborn knots. Annie had to find a way to fix it. After all, it had been her idea to make gifts to welcome Mom home from the hospital. And now it appeared as if even her 10-year-old brother could do better than she could.
She glanced at the clock and saw that it was already 4:30. Bonnie soon had to leave for ballet class, and Mark was knee-deep in homework. It was up to her to start dinner again if Dad was to have any time at the hospital with Mom. She had been there for two long weeks! Even the tangle of mistakes in Annie’s hands couldn’t make her feel sad when she remembered that Mom would be home tomorrow.
After the dinner dishes and her own homework were done, Annie got right back to work. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her long brown hair brushing her cheeks, when Dad softly knocked. “How’s it going, Annie?”
“Oh, Dad,” Annie admitted reluctantly, lifting her aching neck, “I just go around and around, and the stitches just get smaller and tighter.”
“How about giving it up for a while, honey,” said Dad gently. “We have a big day tomorrow. You look very tired.”
“I have to finish it before Mom comes home,” Annie said with determination, “even if it takes all night.”
“Annie, I want you in bed by 9:30 at the latest,” he said firmly. “Mom will understand, I promise.”
The next morning Annie watched from the door as Dad helped Mom walk up the brick path. She looked thin and white, and she leaned heavily on Dad’s arm. But she was smiling up at Dad and laughing as she always did.
In an instant Annie was in her mother’s arms.
“Gently now, Annie,” laughed Dad as Annie hugged Mom hard.
“It’s all right, John,” Mom said, holding Annie close. Soon Mark and Bonnie were there, too, and Mom was hugging them and saying how much she had missed them all.
“We have surprises for you,” Mark told her. “Come and see.”
Dad’s bouquet of pink carnations was next to the two wrapped gifts on the living room table.
“Now, what’s all this?” Mom asked, smiling as she sat on the sofa.
Mom really liked her presents. Annie felt awful that there was nothing there from her. How could she explain about the hat? She couldn’t. Edging out of the living room, she escaped into the kitchen and finished making the tuna salad for lunch, stubbornly blinking back her tears. She couldn’t let Mom see them. That would make things worse.
She was putting a pan of soup on the stove when she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Look at this nice lunch you’ve made, Annie,” Mom said quietly.
Annie turned to face her mother, and this time she couldn’t blink away the tears. “But I have no present for you, Mom,” she said. “I wanted it to be so perfect—a lacy crocheted hat to look pretty with your hair—but …”
“Shhh,” whispered Mom, putting her arms around Annie. “Don’t you think Dad’s told me about all that you’ve done here while I was in the hospital? With Bonnie’s ballet recital coming up and Mark so far behind in his schoolwork, you have had to do more than your share of the work. Dad doesn’t know what he would have done without you.”
“But Mark and Bonnie made such nice things for you, and mine turned out just horrible.”
“Do you want to know what I think? I think you gave me the most perfect gift you could have given.”
“You do?”
“You gave of yourself for two whole weeks without any thought of a reward, and I bet that after lunch and a nap for me, we can figure out that hat and finish it together in no time.”

A more recent example of courage and inner strength comes from a young man from Grants Pass, Oregon. Parker Jarvis was a heavyweight wrestler favored to win the Oregon state championship. He was unable to wrestle his sophomore year because of COVID-19, and then he broke his wrist his junior year. In his senior year he was undefeated in Oregon during the regular season and was the clear favorite to fulfill his dream to be a state champion.

Unfortunately, a snowstorm caused the finals of the state wrestling tournament to be delayed from Saturday to Sunday. In spite of all his hard work and dreams, Parker courageously told his coach that he would not wrestle on Sunday. The competition officials allowed him to continue to compete on Saturday to see how far he could get, and he successfully pinned every opponent he faced. In Sunday’s championship match, he would have faced someone he had already beaten three times during the season.

After his final match on Saturday, knowing he was forfeiting his dream of a state championship, Parker walked over to his mom, dad, and coach and tearfully fell into their arms. He later wrote to his sister: “Wrestling is important to me, but I have to know that I have control of my life. I have to know that I can sacrifice things that are important to me for something of greater value.”

Just a few weeks later, Parker did become a state champion in track and field when he became the Oregon state shot put champion. Shortly thereafter, he entered the mission field to serve in Romania.

As we grow, everything we learn can be used by the Lord to bless someone, somewhere.
As a Scout I learned Morse code. Years later, while I was on my mission, an investigator came into sacrament meeting, and I felt inspired to write him a short note in Morse code which said something like, “Welcome to sacrament meeting. Happy to see you here!”
It turned out he was a radio operator, and it was a great delight to him to have somebody write him a note in Morse code. Imagine how happy I was when this investigator, with a big smile, said, “I’m so glad that you wrote me this message in Morse code!” I was amazed that something I had learned years earlier could help me on my mission to reach a certain individual in a particular way.
As we are open to new things and to learning in our lives, the Lord knows what we have learned and can use us to bless others. Morse code is a specific example, but if we are willing, the Lord can use us as instruments to bless the lives of others and bring joy to their lives and our own.

Over a decade later, my mother’s best friend, Millee, had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife and I planned a trip to Colorado to find a location for my dental practice, and Millee encouraged us to visit Temple Square on our trip. My wife loved the idea, so we extended our trip to Salt Lake City.
When we arrived, we visited every building on Temple Square and spoke with the missionaries. We loved everything we learned and felt a peace we later would recognize as the Holy Spirit.
After the trip, we called Millee and told her we would be interested in joining the Church. She squealed with delight and invited us to chat with her and her husband, Bob. They helped us meet other members, which led us to attend an institute class and eventually meet with the missionaries.
We loved the teachings of the restored gospel and felt the Spirit. Bob baptized my wife and me, and he and Millee helped us prepare to enter the temple. One year later, they again showed their support by driving us almost 800 miles (1,290 km) to the Washington D.C. Temple to receive endowment and sealing ordinances.

For nine years Professor Marvin Hill and I had worked on the book Carthage Conspiracy, which concerns the 1845 court trial of the murderers of Joseph Smith. We had several different sources of minutes on the trial, some bearing their authors’ names and others unsigned. The fullest set of minutes was unsigned, but because we had located them in the Church Historian’s Office, we were sure they were the minutes kept by George Watt, the Church’s official scribe who was sent to record the proceedings of the trial. We so stated in seven drafts of our manuscript, and we analyzed all our sources on that assumption.

Finally, the book was completed, and within a few weeks the final manuscript would be sent to the publisher. As I sat in my office at BYU one Saturday afternoon, I felt impelled to go through a pile of unexamined books and pamphlets accumulated on the table behind my desk. At the very bottom of the pile of 50 or 60 publications, I found a printed catalog of the contents of the Wilford C. Wood Museum, which Professor LaMar Berrett, the author, had sent to me a year and a half earlier. As I quickly flipped through the pages of this catalog of Church history manuscripts, my eyes fell on a page describing the manuscript of the trial minutes we had attributed to George Watt. This catalog page told how Wilford Wood had purchased the original of that set of minutes in Illinois and had given the Church a typewritten version, the same version we had obtained from the Church Historian. We immediately visited the Wilford Wood Museum in Woods Cross, Utah, and obtained additional information which enabled us to determine that the minutes we had thought were the official Church source had been prepared by one of the lawyers for the defense. With this knowledge, we returned to the Church Historian’s Office and were able to locate for the first time George Watt’s official and highly authentic set of minutes on the trial. This discovery saved us from a grievous error in the identification of one of our major sources and also permitted us to enrich the contents of our book significantly. The impression I received that day in my office was a cherished example of the way the Lord will help us in our righteous professional pursuits when we qualify for the impressions of his Spirit.

Now, getting back to the experience we had with Elder LeGrand Richards when we brought him to the Missionary Training Center to speak. It was a short time before he passed away. As I mentioned, he was 96 years of age and was having a variety of difficulties with his health. (I suppose we all might have some difficulties with our health if we live to age 96!)

He had some heart and circulation problems and walked with a cane. Before he died he had a portion of one of his legs amputated. He quipped that he was glad that they had started on that end.

On that Tuesday evening, he addressed about 1,700 missionaries. He gave a stirring message quoting missionary scriptures and sharing those lively missionary experiences to illustrate them. In a remarkable way he held the missionaries on the edges of their seats for almost an hour. At the conclusion of the meeting I asked Elder Richards if he would share with the missionaries what he had told us earlier, just before the devotional began, when we had asked him how he was.

In his good-natured and enthusiastic way he returned to the pulpit and said:

This is just for a little fun. I am past 96, as you know, and when people ask me how I am, I say “fine,” if you don’t want details. If they want details, I tell them: “Well, I’ve lost my hair. These are not my teeth. I can’t see out of that eye. I can’t hear out of this ear. My feet and legs don’t percolate like they used to. The house I am living in is a bit dilapidated.”
[And then, raising his clenched hand above his head, he said,] But LeGrand Richards IS ALL RIGHT!

It was electric! That whole congregation of missionaries rose spontaneously to their feet and gave this great missionary apostle a standing ovation. I share the experience for two reasons: one, because it was one of those interesting and unforgettable experiences at the MTC, but two, and more important, because of what I learned from the occasion.

The closer Christmas got, the heavier my heart became. In November, neither my husband nor I had regular work. I paid for rent, electricity, and the telephone out of my decreased earnings, and my husband paid the car payment from his diminished wages. The remaining money was barely enough to get us by. December brought more work and a return to normal, but we wouldn’t be paid until January. Under these circumstances, even a holiday dinner was out of the question.
“Everything will be all right,” I told myself. That summer my husband had picked a lot of raspberries, and we had made jam. We would have pancakes and jam and would make our own gifts. But when our three daughters (ages 6, 8, and 14) began happily decorating with garlands they had made, all the while talking about what their parents might give them for Christmas, I was sick at heart.
One evening my visiting teachers came by for an unexpected visit. I have no brothers and sisters of my own, so the Relief Society sisters in my branch—particularly my visiting teachers—have truly become my sisters. That night they shared an interesting lesson, then began to visit about the upcoming holiday. I assured them that everything was fine but said that it would be a rather “poor” Christmas for us. They assured me that they would be praying for our family.
One day when my husband came to pick me up from work, he said that everyone at home was impatiently awaiting my arrival. A sister from our branch had dropped off some boxes. When we opened them, they contained all the delicacies of the season: fruit, cookies, candy, other groceries, decorations, and lovingly wrapped gifts. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude. And that wasn’t the end. The family of one of my visiting teachers surprised us on Christmas morning with a box of gifts.
In the end our “poor” Christmas was a particularly joyful one. Our home was filled with not only the spirit of Christmas but also the warmth and love of my visiting teachers and other members of our branch. I came to understand that the Lord truly does meet our needs most often through other people—particularly those He has assigned and inspired to watch over and care for us.